


We Grow Back Together

by papofglencoe



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papofglencoe/pseuds/papofglencoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of a pivotal moment in Katniss and Peeta’s burgeoning relationship at the end of Mockingjay. </p>
<p>Canon-compliant, pre-epilogue</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Grow Back Together

It’s late afternoon by the time I return to the house, my messenger bag heavy from the day’s hunt. I’d had a productive day in the woods, managing to bag five squirrels and a wild turkey. My snares caught a jackrabbit, and, since the wild blackberries had ripened overnight, I’d picked enough to fill a liter-sized container. My shoulder aches under the weight of my bag. We’ll eat well for the next few days, I think, with plenty to spare for our motley family and some of the others in town, too. 

I don’t know if it’s the warm summer sunshine beating down on my skin, or if I’m rejuvenated from a day under the shady canopy of the forest, but as I open the front door, I catch myself thinking that life is good. The thought is so foreign to me that it catches me off-guard. Even stranger, though, I don’t allow myself to feel shame for thinking it. A few months ago it would have been unthinkable, a lie. A few weeks ago I would have questioned the sanity of the thought, would have buckled under the weight of the guilt. How can life be good when I’m here, and she isn’t? How can it be fair? Or right?

But he’s here, and there’s something so impossibly right about that.

I walk into the kitchen to deposit my bag on the counter, and he’s there, busy at work. I pause in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe to observe him. I could stand here for hours, watching him work. I breathe in his sight, let it fill me with joy. He looks so healthy. He’s stocky, and he’s regained his weight and muscles–I can see them pressing against the fabric of his white shirt. His arms look strong and steady, and I want them to wrap around me and hold me tightly, like they do every night. 

We’ve been living together and sleeping together almost since the day he returned to District 12. The first few days he slept at Haymitch’s house, but it became apparent to both of us fairly immediately that his home was with me. We spent most of every day together, so there seemed little point asking him to leave at night. It wasn’t what I wanted anyway, so I asked him to stay with me. He’s been here ever since. 

Our routine is comforting. He bakes. I hunt. We sit at the kitchen table and work on our memory book. He watches me as I tell him stories of the people we’ve both lost. He trusts that what I tell him is the truth, even when there are false memories that challenge what I say. I watch him draw, his strong fingers grasping the pencil, delicately crafting images out of nothing at all, stroke by stroke. We sit on the front porch in the early hours of the evening, and we talk. And laugh. 

We never touch, except at night, when he draws me onto his chest and holds me until I fall asleep. In the dark I’ll brush my fingers through the feather-soft locks of his hair, or he’ll stroke the curve of my waist with his thumb in small, repetitive circles. But we never kiss. And in the light of the day, it isn’t something we’ve discussed or pursued. 

I watch him kneading the dough, working rhythmically and steadily. The heels of his hands press the dough flat, and then he folds it and repeats the motion. Over and over. His fingers and arms are covered in flour, and the afternoon sun cutting through the kitchen window illuminates the motes of flour in the air. It’s everywhere. In his pale blonde hair, his eyebrows, his eyelashes, on his clothes. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that he’s created an explosion of white dust in our kitchen. He doesn’t notice me, and I don’t want to startle him, so I gently knock on the frame of the door and clear my throat.

“A-hem. I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re cleaning the kitchen tonight,” I say, one corner of my mouth curling up.

He looks up at me, his clear blue eyes meeting mine, and smiles. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. There was a minor catastrophe opening the bag of flour. With emphasis on the “cat” part of the word.”

I walk toward him, deposit my bag on the sliver of counter that isn’t covered in flour. “Oh yeah?” I inquire. 

“The cat. He was following me around the house since the minute you left, and he got underfoot. I tripped on him while opening the bag, and, well, we got a bath. Serves him right for acting like a dog.”

I look around for Buttercup but don’t see him anywhere in the kitchen. “Where is he now?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answers. “Probably hiding under the bed, afraid the next bath he gets will involve water.”

We meet eyes again and smile. That ridiculous cat provides us with a constant source of entertainment. I gaze at Peeta’s face, the strong line of his jaw, the corners of his eyes that crinkle slightly when he smiles. His pale brown freckles. I look away, suddenly feeling shy. An idea has come to me.

“How long do you need to finish up? Do you want to go somewhere with me?”

He pauses his work, wipes his hands on his apron. He looks pleased. “I’d like that,” he answers softly. Peeta looks around at the dough, the mess around him, and laughs. “I don’t know… maybe half an hour? Somewhere between that and an eternity.” He unconsciously runs his hands through his hair, which immediately becomes sticky with dough. 

I walk up to him without a second thought and, standing inches in front of him, begin to pick it out of his hair. Using my hands, I brush the flour off his shirt, his arms. He stands motionless, and I can hear his breath become hitched. I don’t look up at him.

I take a step back, only then making eye contact. I smile when I see the look on his face. Happy. His cheeks are flushed. So are mine, and my heart is pounding. 

I nod. “Okay. That works. I’m going to pack a bag. Just wear something comfortable, okay?”

He nods back. “Okay.”

I gather a few things together into a rucksack: a cleaned squirrel, a bag of blackberries, some bread. His sketchbook and pencils. Some water. And a sleeping bag. I meet him downstairs half an hour later. He’s sitting on the front porch, leaning back on both arms, eyes closed with his face upturned to the sun. He looks like a statue, like a priceless piece of art. It makes me wish I could paint him, to show him what I see when I look at him. I’m so bad with words, I don’t know how to tell him. 

“Come on,” I say and give him a gentle kick with my toe. 

He stands up. “Where are we going?” he asks, obviously trying to sound casual but failing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I archly reply. I elbow his side and add, “It’s a surprise.”

He sounds pleased, looks at the bag I’m carrying. “Does it involve a train?” he asks a little flirtatiously. Without asking, he takes the bag from me and throws it easily over his right shoulder. This kind of banter between us is new, and it feels right.

I snicker and shake my head. “We don’t need a train for this, Peeta.”

We start walking together, silently, toward town. He looks at me again and adds, “No. We don’t need a train.” His words are heavy with meaning, and I’m so contented by them that I can’t pretend to joke about what either of us means. We resume our silent walk through town. He’s fidgety and clearly dying to know where we’re headed as we pass all the usual places we frequent. We’re approaching the charred foundations of the houses of the Seam and the border of the meadow, which is now a mass grave, when he halts his steps. 

“Katniss?” he asks, and I can hear the worry edging into his voice. He’s gazing out at the dark forest in the near distance. Sometimes he’s still so fragile, the slightest image triggering terror, that it rends my heart in pieces. That anyone could harm him, reduce someone so brave to a quaking mess of nerves and sweat and panic, fills me with rage. 

I don’t let the darkness overwhelm us or the threat of shadowy nightmares defeat us. I don’t let the past into this moment. I reach out then and take his hand in mine. I can feel the strength of his fingers as they curl around mine, the warm, smooth skin of the baker’s hand meeting the callused skin of the hunter’s. Our fingers are laced to together, and it feels like we’re one person, strong and unafraid.

I look into his eyes and ask, “Do you trust me?”

He doesn’t pause. “Yes.” And then he adds, “With my life.”

I smile, nod. “Good. Then trust me. C’mon, let’s keep moving. We have to get there soon.” 

I don’t let go of his hand. We walk through the meadow, the newly sprouted grass already tall enough to trace lines against our ankles. Our progress is swift, and as we enter the woods I move us through the familiar terrain with speed and agility. I tell him when to duck from low-hanging branches, point out fallen stumps so he doesn’t trip, wend us around trickling streams and thickets of thorny brush. 

The early evening sun illuminates the leaves of the tree canopy, and I point out their beautiful, electric green shapes as they dance lightly in the breeze. The leaves cast shadows on our faces, the sun’s glare blinds us as it glances off the moving water of the streams around us. 

I hold his hand tightly, and I can feel his calm, steady pulse. He’s only ever been in the woods once outside of the arena, to find the primrose for me, and he’s never been this deep into them. We are so deep into the forest that there are no sounds from the town, there are no sounds but our own ragged breathing, the rustling leaves, the babbling water, and the call of the mockingjays overhead. I look at the forest through his eyes, absorb all the beauty of it for the first time.

We reach the clearing shortly, and then we’re at the rock ledge overlooking the valley below us. “This is it,” I announce and take a seat on the worn, exposed rock. “I’ve been wanting to bring you here. For so long now.” 

Peeta places the bag on the ground and takes the spot next to me, comfortably resting on the groove of the rock. He’s so close to me that I can feel the warmth of his body radiating into mine through our hips. His knees are up, and he’s resting his arms on them, taking in the sight below him. He looks so calm, so entranced by the view before him, that I’m overcome with a feeling I can’t name. I loop my right arm through his left, resting my head on his shoulder. He leans his head against mine and, exhaling, murmurs, “Katniss.”

We don’t talk. We watch the sun as it slowly slinks toward the horizon, smoothly bowing its way west. The vista before us is pristine and untouched, otherworldly in its innocence. There are only the hills, covered in lush, green pine. And the sky is smeared with color, like the sloppy and imperfect painting of a young child. Red melting into orange rubbing against pink, streaked throughout with lavender. The sun, a dusky orange, glows warmly at us, a fire that burns forever. 

I break the spell by reaching behind me, and I grab Peeta’s sketchbook and pencils from the bag. I hold them out to him. “Here,” I say. 

He takes them, smiling, and then places them down on the rock. 

“What?” I say, perturbed. “I thought you’d want to sketch this. I wanted to show you this so that you could draw it and always remember.”

He shakes his head and looks down, chuckling. “I don’t need to sketch this to always remember it, Katniss. And besides, it’s not even what I would want to draw. As beautiful as it is, it’s not the most beautiful thing I see.”

He looks at me, and I meet his gaze. I can see that he’s nervous, and in realizing that, I notice I’m trembling. I feel weightless and giddy. 

He leans toward me then, slowly, and gently places his hand on my cheek. I can feel the warmth of his palm against my cool skin. I close my eyes and nuzzle against his hand, bringing my hand up to hold his so that he can’t pull it away. I’m worried that if I let go he’ll vanish. My cheek tingles at every point where his skin meets mine. His thumb moves down, toward my mouth, and brushes my lower lip. My lips part, and as they do, he leans in and kisses me. 

His kiss is soft and passionate and tastes of cinnamon and nutmeg, and as we kiss, I wind my fingers through his hair to hold him close. It is our first kiss without cameras, outside of the Games, completely alone. This is our first kiss as us. The kiss is long and deep, and when we break for air, he presses his forehead against mine, our eyes closed. Our breathing is irregular and labored, and we both laugh from exhilaration. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, and I wrap mine around his waist, and neither of us notices or cares that the sun has set. We sit blissfully together like this until it’s time to go to bed. And then, in the sleeping bag that we share, he holds my face in both his hands and begins to plant kisses on me. My forehead. My nose. My eyelids. And my mouth. He holds my face in his hands until we fall asleep, protected by the watchful stars.


End file.
